


a better way home

by royalwisteria



Series: a hogwarts world au [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Depression, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, post—hogwarts, side bellarke/wellven does exist but very much to the side, there will not be angst so much as sad internal monologue re: depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 03:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6453319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalwisteria/pseuds/royalwisteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years post graduating from Hogwarts, Monty's lost. Cashier at Flourish and Blott's, only friends consisting of Bellamy, Wells, and their respective girlfriends, a tiny flat with two muggle roommates, and the pervasive thought that nothing's as it was meant to be-- it's not that nothing's going right, so much as that Monty doesn't know what right is anymore. A wholly unexpected reunion with his old friend Nate feels good, until his parents understand "friend" to be "boyfriend" and suddenly they're expecting Monty to bring Nate as his plus one to a cousin's wedding. Monty doesn't know how to get out of this situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s seven-thirty am. Monty listens to his roommates alarms go off and the slow rise of noise as they move around, getting ready for the day. He twists in his sheets as the toaster dings, as he listens to the faint scraping of a knife on toast, a briefcase picked up, the tapping of their shoes on the floor, and the locking noise as they leave. The apartment feels empty, peacefully so.

He extricates himself from his bed and, wand tucked behind his ear, pads into the kitchen. There are crumbs on the counter from their toast, a knife balanced precariously over the sink with jam sticking to the topside. He opens the fridge, scratching his side, shirt riding up, and sighs. There’s some bacon, some bagged scones his mum delivered last time he was home, a door full of condiments, and a half-empty container of milk. There’s sandwich bread on the counter, open-end half twisted to keep from going stale. He snags a slice and uses the dirty knife to slather some strawberry jam on. With one hand, he levers himself onto the counter and stares blankly across the kitchen as he eats. It’s more of a kitchenette really: cramped, barest appliances, and entirely open to the living room that his roommate Laurie sometimes uses as a bedroom when especially drunk.

It’s now fifteen ’til nine and Monty’s job starts at nine. Time to get dressed.

It’s a bit belated, but he brushes his teeth, ignores the jarring juxtaposition between the sweet jam and toothpaste, and then scrambles into clothes and jams his robes into a bag to change into, then tucks his wand into that pocket, his keys following, before finally apparating into Diagon Alley.

It’s a short walk to Flourish and Blotts and he ducks into the bathroom to change into the robes. Monty’s a little early, as he tries to be, and he can feel something choking settle around his neck, onto his heart, as he pulls the robes on. Another day at work, selling books and stationary; another day talking to people he’ll never see again, his face blank to customers, half his coworkers calling him Mac because they don’t remember his name.

He signs in, takes position at the register, next to Janet, an older woman he doesn’t know as well. She smiles and nods at him, but is currently going through the stock list and doesn’t pay him attention beyond that. The store is fairly empty, and the bell rings as a young couple enter. They mosey around the store and Monty taps his fingers on the counter as he idly watches them. They take a look at the bestsellers, poke around the textbooks for students, then seem to dig a spot for themselves amidst the nonfiction. It’s the largest section of the store; there are endless books on magical theory, as well as philosophy, and the section handily beats the number of textbooks, which comes in number two in amount of content.

A dad stops by, his daughter in tote, and pays for a children’s book. The young couple come by later, with three books: one on magical relativism, another on thaumaturgy, and the most recent biography of the Ministry founding.

“I’ve heard it’s good,” Monty says, Janet gone a while ago. “This biography.”

The young woman smiles. “I read about it in the Prophet.”

“I’ll have to give it a read,” he says, returning the smile. He gives them their total, they pay, they leave, and that is how the rest of his day goes.

The only good part in Monty’s day is grabbing a butterbeer or two with Bellamy and Wells at the Leaky Cauldron. They both have a tendency to talk about their work and girlfriends, and Monty tends to grin and bear it, but it harkens back to their Hogwarts days. The ease with which they chat, the occasional reminiscence: this is the only time Monty relaxes.

He gets off work, slings his bag over his shoulder, and takes his time walking through Diagon Alley. Evenings are always gorgeous here, with the sun hitting the flagstone road perfectly. The windows reflect the setting sun, and Monty suspects that whoever designed the area to capitalize on the sunrise and sunset. The sky’s a spectrum of color, the sun st

He slips into the Leaky Cauldron and sits at the bar. Clarke works here, intentionally, totally content with being a waitress. Monty asked her, a year ago, what her plans were and she had cocked her head. She wants her own restaurant, she told him, and the Leaky Cauldron is practice. She even has another job, at a more upscale restaurant, where she works on weekends and other odd shifts. It’s nice, Monty thinks. That sort of desire, that sort of dream, something to pursue. Here he is, four years out of Hogwarts, working mostly as a cashier at Flourish and Botts. No dream, nothing to follow, no desire that beats in his chest, and most nights he curls up in bed and wishes that sleep wouldn’t desert him so.

The butterbeer is the right kind of sweet, and Clarke winks at him as she serves another customer. “Bellamy texted, saying he’s running late, and Wells said he can’t make it because of something with Raven. I’m suspecting surprise sex, but who knows.”

He smiles back. So it’ll just be him, Bellamy, and Clarke. He’s going to be the third wheel. He hates being the third wheel. It wasn’t always bad— there used to be days he enjoyed being the odd man out to his coupled friends, but not anymore. He doesn’t even know what happened to old friends, like Jasper, Harper, or Nate. They seem far away, now, as though people from another life.

Monty finishes his butterbeer before Bellamy arrives. There’s red in his cheeks and a wide smile, the same eagerness Monty remembers from his first tentative and terrified moments at Hogwarts. He remembers the slung arm, being called kid, and he smiles back.

“My man Monty,” he says, hugging him. “How’s your day?”

Monty shrugs. “My roommates are messy as always.”

Bellamy nods, and smiles at Clarke, smile and tender, when she gives him his own butterbeer. “Still don’t know why you’re rooming with some muggles,” Bellamy says, shaking his head. “Isn’t it exhausting, always hiding?” He pauses, and Monty knows he’s about to continue along this vein, but a look at Monty’s face stops him. “Sorry, I know you don’t like talking about it. Want to hear about the latest shit at the Auror’s Office?”

Yes, and no. He wants to talk about literally anything other than himself, but he doesn’t want to hear about how much happier Bellamy is than him; he doesn't want to compare himself, however unintentionally. So he nods, and Clarke stands near them at the bar, plating fish and chips for the both of them. She also sees to other customers, running plates out, serving drinks, and altogether masterfully in control of the place. She’s been working here for a few years, now, and has risen in rank and power.

Monty finishes a second butterbeer, picks at his fish and chips and manages to eat half the plate. He’s done after that, silence comfortable between him and Bellamy. “I’m gonna head out,” he says, standing up, counting through bills, wishing that the magic world would hurry up and get credit cards. “Clarke,” he calls out, who turns and nods when she catches sight of the money.

“Hey, don’t you have a day off tomorrow?”

He does, but he hesitates to say so. “Why?”

“Wells and I get off early, we’re thinking about taking a trip to Hogsmeade.”

“A quick trip."

“Yeah.”

Monty considers, but his heart is already sinking, and he knows his answer. “Sorry, I’ve got plans already.”

He does— and, sort of, doesn’t.

Bellamy smiles, though it’s a little tight, and Monty wonders when this trip was planned. Was the invitation to Monty extended out of habit? Was it an invitation Bellamy knew would be rejected? Something in his heart hurts, just a little, but mostly he just feels acceptance. Somehow, Monty knows that Bellamy and Clarke will talk about him when he’s gone. Somehow, Monty knows Bellamy and Wells do already. Or maybe it’s his ego talking, wishing to be made something of, despite not being something to be made anything of.

It hurts. Monty walks home, unlocks the door, brushes his teeth and falls into bed. The kitchen is clean, and Laurie, on the phone, is audible from his room.

 

 

A year after Monty graduated from Hogwarts, past the cusp of eighteen and living at home, his mom approaches him with concern. Therapy, she suggests, might be helpful. A guidance counselor. Someone to help set him on a good path. The guidance received at Hogwarts had come to naught. Monty has no interest in Mungo’s, no interest in the Ministry, in any of the careers suggested to him at school. That first year, post-Hogwarts, is full of long walks, and avoiding family members. His mom is worried. His dad too. But all Monty feels it this inexplicable sense of loss; he’s lost something, sometime and somewhere in the intervening months since Hogwarts. It’s only just now catching up to him, in his childhood bedroom, in spaces he hadn’t occupied for more than a few months since he was ten. He lost a passion, a sense of self, purpose, a knowledge that he knew what to do.

It intensifies with time. Two years after graduating, Monty gets a job at Flourish and Botts. The owner, apparently, knows the Jaha name. It’s a bitter acceptance, and Monty doesn’t enjoy the swallows of fire whiskey he manages in celebration with Bellamy and Wells. The two have interned and trained at their respective jobs: Auror, Wizengamot. They’ll get fancy titles, prove themselves, and their eyes burn with passion and purpose.

They are the same people as they ever were. Monty, here, at the Leaky Cauldron, is the odd one out. At the Three Broomsticks, there had been more companionship, more laughter, a light sense of ease. That feeling is missing now, whenever they meet. They always seem to expect something of him, that the little boy they took under their wing has plans of his own. He doesn’t. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Four years out of Hogwarts, with two muggle roommates and a going-nowhere job, Monty considers therapy. He doesn’t tell his mom, nor his friends. He does research, finds a place not in London, a little more rural, and wizard friendly. The day after the invitation for a day-trip to Hogsmeade is Monty’s first appointment.

It’s… okay. He doesn’t even know what to expect, so he sat there, feeling inane and a little stupid, and avoided talking about his life, his feelings, everything and anything. Small talk, for the most part, and the therapist goes along with it. They talk about the weather, how unseasonably warm it is, about flowers; Monty spends a lot of time staring at a painting on the therapist’s wall. It’s of a horse, from the side, the animal half-turning it’s head to look towards the painter. For a moment, as he stares, the horse moves it’s head, slightly turning away. He blinks, and the movement stops.

The session ends, Monty feeling no better or worse than before, and he stands in front of the office thinking _what now?_ It’s just past noon. Maybe he should have accepted the Hogsmeade invitation, except that he really hadn’t wanted to go. A pub down the road beckons to him, so Monty ambles his way towards it and pushes in. A bell tinkles, and a voice behind the bar tells him to seat himself. It’s a little empty, but not pitifully so. He takes a seat near the window, staring out, across the road. A pharmacy is directly across, and he watches as an older woman enters.

“Here’s a menu, give a shout when you’re— Monty?”

Monty had taken the menu, already opening it to browse, when he hears his name. His eyes flicker up and he takes in the familiar, angular face of Nate. His mouth opens. “Nate. What’re you doing here?”

“I work here,” he says, gesturing with one hand to his outfit. There’s a half-apron tied around his waist, and a pen stuck behind an ear; a pad of paper is in the hand he gestures with. “I thought you were living in London.”

“Oh, I am.”

Nate’s forehead scrunches momentarily, but he shrugs, let’s it go. That’s one of the things he liked about Nate, Monty recalls— blunt acceptance. He never pushes. Monty appreciates it to an all new level. “The burgers are pretty good,” he says, before giving a short nod and moving away. Monty stares at him, then the menu. He’ll just get a burger with a beer, then head home. Or— he doesn’t want to head home, not really, not to that cramped apartment. He’ll be alone there, and he likes being alone, but he craves crowds at the same time. He never got past sharing space with other kids his age at Hogwarts. He wants a crowd where he can exist with anonymity.

Without being called, Nate appears. “Burger, right?” he says, without moving the pen. The pad of paper’s in his pocket now. “With a beer. Guinness okay?”

Monty nods, hands him the menu. “You good?”

Nate smiles slowly, and Monty remembers that he also liked this smile, the sincerity and the rarity, the crinkles at his eyes. “Doing my best, just like everyone else.”

“Weren’t you going to be an Auror? Bellamy just completed training.”

The smile softens, and what remains looks forced. “I started, but my dad had some health complications, so I’m home for now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Nate shrugs. “I’ll go get your order in, and get you your beer.”

That’s something else Monty liked about Nate: his stoicism, a staunch movement forward.

A few minutes later, his beer arrives with a wink, and then some time later the burger arrives. It _is_ good. Monty thinks that, next appointment, he’ll swing by again.

 

 

For the most part, Monty gets along with his roommates. They’re pleasant enough fellows, if not totally comprehending of Monty’s life. They asked him where he worked, when he first moved in, and he had said, “a bookstore.” They naturally pressed for details, and Monty hedged, and he’s still not sure what conclusions they had reached afterwards. Maybe that he doesn’t actually work, or that he does something illegal. He doesn’t want to know.

There’s Laurie and there’s Tom. Laurie works as a bank teller, and Tom’s a chef at some restaurant he’d been shocked Monty didn’t know. Monty still doesn’t know it, though Tom’s been pressing him to go one day. In their own way, that roommate way, they’re friends. Laurie pays for all the alcohol, Tom gets groceries when he has time, and Monty’s really good at making sure bills get paid on time. It balances nicely. Monty doesn’t want it to change.

Bellamy and Wells didn’t understand at first. Bellamy still doesn’t understand, though Wells now has an inkling.

“Muggles?” Bellamy had asked, lip curling down. “Why? Just room with one of us.”

Bellamy’s muggleborn, Monty hadn’t said, and believed Octavia would remain non-magical for years.

“If it’s what you want,” Wells had said. There was a line on his forehead.

Monty hadn’t known how to say that it’s not that he wanted it, but that he _needed_ it. An escape, a way out from a world that had only grown more claustrophobic. He’s muggleborn, and after Hogwarts he’d realized he didn’t actually know his roots. He’d heard Laurie and Tom talk about exams, A levels, and trips to Stonehenge, and he’d been clueless. He feels like he’d missed something essential. “Muggles,” Bellamy sometimes says derisively, despite it being his own background. “Muggles,” Wells says, without understanding, pureblooded, never knowing public school the way Monty does. Did? Once upon a time.

So he needed a space away from the wizarding world, and it’s his muggle London apartment with Laurie and Tom. Laurie hands him a beer the evening Monty returns home after his second therapy appointment, when his eyes were red and mouth downturned. When Monty finishes it, Laurie hands him another. Tom grabs one for himself, though he typically doesn’t like drinking, and it’s nice, quiet. They don’t ask questions. There’s a certain solidness about them, and Monty likes coming home to that.

They’re a sense of normalcy in a world where so much has lost meaning. That, even if Monty doesn’t have a path, in this apartment, with two blokes he superficially knows and gets along with, he can create his own space.

 

 

Every so often, Monty goes home for dinner. He apparates directly into the living room, out of sight from neighbors. He hears the TV on low and his parents chatter over it. He moves into the kitchen, and his mom smiles. “Monty,” she says, reaching out for a hug. A knife is one hand, cutting up some kimchi, and he laughs as he avoids the edge when he hugs her. His dad stretches out an arm, and Monty gives him the one-armed hug he desires. A glance at the TV tells him that a favorite sitcom of his dad’s is on, a slightly trashy one; his dad has probably already seen the episode.

“What’s for dinner tonight?”

“I thought about some soondubu jjigae. There’s also kimbap in the fridge for you. I know,” she says immediately, on the defensive, “that kimchi is not okay, that your roommates don’t want any, but I figured kimbap was okay. Just make sure to eat it, okay?”

Monty purses his lips, shrugs. Soft tofu stew is a favorite of his, and it looks like she’ll be adding the pork belly as well, but the kimbap bothers him. If he wants kimbap, he’ll make kimbap, all on his own, without help; his mom constantly tries to give him things, take care of him, cater to his every need. He’s positive that years of boarding school didn’t help her over-protectiveness.

“I eat fine.”

She stops chopping, sets the knife aside, and scoops up the chopped kimchi and dumps it into the pot on the stove. The stock she made ahead is already on simmer, and she flicks her hands to get the juices off her hands before rinsing them quickly. “I know you, Monty, and you’re not eating fine.”

He crosses his arms, tight across his chest. “Mom.”

“You used to call me umma,” she says softly, not looking at him. Monty sees his dad’s mouth tighten and an aborted measure to reach out towards his mom. It’s an endless complaint, another weight added to his shoulders, and it was worse when he was home. Before Hogwarts, he had a degree of fluency in Korean, but it’s all gone now. His feelings about his heritage, about what he’s lost when gone at Hogwarts, are mixed.

Monty leaves the kitchen and goes to his childhood bedroom. Even after a number of years living at home after Hogwarts, most of it remains the same from when he was ten. The walls are a pale blue, his bedcovers space-themed, a small and cramped desk. There’s a small lamp on top of it, with a miscellaneous collection of magical items idly left there. There’s an old chocolate frog, on top of his collection of cards, a cauldron, and tucked beside the desk are various books he kept. He tugs a Charms book from the pile, those on top thumping down, and sits cross-legged on his bed as he flips through it.

It’s full of notes, both idle and from class. It’s painful, to see those notes, and the parchment occasionally tucked between pages. Most of them are bits passed between him and Jasper, from seventh year: plans for Hogsmeade, study meet-ups in the Library, that kind. There’s one piece, small, with what Monty recalls is Nate’s handwriting. He flattens it and tries to remember the context.

It must’ve been— Transfiguration? Jasper wasn’t in that class, he hated Transfiguration. Nate, though, was a natural, and in general a hard-worker if not always naturally talented. Monty remembers that, seeing Nate in the Library as late as allowed, determined to succeed. He never hit top of his year, but had good grades all the way across.

Transfiguration, Monty decides. End of the year, and then the memory of sitting out by the Lake, early spring, comes to mind, a slight breeze, a half-smile Monty had never seen before; he just wanted to talk, some headspace away from school, to enjoy the sun while it lasted. That was before the confession, in the Great Hall, the near perfect buttered scone, that half-smile _again_ , and Monty’s heart hurts. “No regrets,” he’d said, and Monty had smiled, bitten into the scone, and forgot about the confession after graduating.

Monty had forgotten it all. He— he can’t believe himself, for those lunches at the pub, treasuring Nate’s quiet presence, the way he doesn’t pry or shoot him cautious, wary glances; he doesn’t have a desire to help, not aware that there’s any need for help. Monty had forgotten that half-smile. He’d forgotten that scone, the “no regret”, _everything_ ; all these memories lost to depression.

In the past few weeks, he had gone to the pub after every appointment. The second time he’d been crying, his eyes red and puffy, and Nate hadn’t asked but just set a beer and burger in front of him without asking for an order. A stoic sort of kindness, solid, but more knowing than Laurie or Tom. And, in all that time, Monty had talked to Nate, blamefully forgetful of the confession.

Does it still stand?

Does Monty _want_ it to stand?

He tucks the various parchments back into the book and puts it on top of the stack. He changes his mind after looking at it, and tucks it back where it was, below a third year Potions book, a Care of Magical Creatures book, and several beat up notebooks he had brought from home to take notes in.

“Dinner,” his dad calls up the stairs, and Monty joins them for dinner, pushing Nate to the back of his mind. It’s not worth thinking about, he tells himself, spooning some stew into his bowl grabbing some of the customary side dishes and chews on bean sprouts. He puts rice into his soup, starts eating.

His parents lapse into Korean every now and then, start when they remember Monty’s around, and return to English. A cousin’s getting married, Save the Date cards sent around for late August; his dad makes a joke about Monty apparating them to the location so they don’t have to travel, and they all give the obligatory laugh. They would never truly wish Monty to apparate them anywhere. They have a deep-seated distrust of magic, and there would be no way to explain their arrival to other guests. They could lie, but his parents are terrible liars.

“Are you interested in going?” his mom asks when Monty’s scraping up the last of his stew. There’s one last piece of tofu, the best part, and he’s been saving it. “You used to play together when children.”

It’s a guilt-trip, easy to spot, harder to avoid.

“I don’t know, I might be busy.”

“With what?”

The tofu’s gone, easily swallowed, but gets caught for a moment. Monty coughs lightly, sipping some water, casting about for a response. He doesn’t want to go, but he can’t give a line about plans with Bellamy and Wells because he sees them all the time and his parents know that. They also know that, while he gets along with Tom and Laurie, they never make plans together.

“This friend.”

“What’s their name?” his dad asks after his parents share a parental look.

“Uh,” and then, as he notices the worry lines on his dad’s face, fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, Monty thinks of Nate, that day at the Great Lake, breeze and all, that half-smile Monty had completely forgotten and that buttered scone, “Nate. Well, it’s actually Nathan, Nathan Miller. We— we knew each other at Hogwarts. We—” He doesn’t know what else to add, but there’s a small, knowing smile on his mom’s face.

“Oh, Monty. You should bring him as your plus one. Weddings make for great dates.”

“Free food,” his dad says with a wink. “And we know there’s going to be an open bar.”

Monty doesn’t understand; at least, not at first. Then that sly, approving tone of his mom’s sets in, the wink, the words: ‘great dates.’ They think Nate’s his boyfriend.

“He’s just a friend,” he says, puzzled, but his parents don’t seem to hear him.

“You once tried to come out,” his mom says, smiling widely, so happy that Monty momentarily doesn’t want to break this moment, dispel the happiness. “You were thirteen, just two years gone.” That word, Monty _hates_ that word from his parents’ mouth. “You were talking about those friends of yours, and you sort of stuttered, and we hoped you trusted us enough, but you stopped and blushed.” She stands, smile firmly in place, and starts gathering dishes off the table.

His dad nods, stands, and starts clearing as well. “We’ve known for years.”

Known _what_ , Monty thinks. That he’s attracted to men, has been for years? Who exactly— when they were pushing him at home, kind and nice, sweet, caring and doting, they didn’t know him. Those summers and winters he spent at home, eating the Korean food he missed, they didn’t know him. Now, assuming without assent from Monty, they still don’t know him. They—

“I’ve gotta go,” he says. “Early shift tomorrow.”

“Wait,” his mom shouts, faint clattering as she puts down dishes, and the fridge opening. “Your kimbap!” He doesn’t want it, but when it’s thrust into his hands, tupperware wrapped in a plastic bag, he takes it. He smiles at his parents, strained, and in a snap apparates to the Leaky Cauldron and walks home.

Tom is up, sitting at the kitchen, fingers pressed to his temples as he stares at his computer.

“I brought kimbap from home,” Monty tells him, putting the bag inside. “Take as much as you want.”

Korean’s not Tom’s favorite, the restaurant he works for is French, but he has an appreciation for sushi and kimbap is fairly similar. Tom absently nods, lifting a hand from his head to truly acknowledge the information, and Monty goes to his bedroom. Tugging off his shirt, Monty wishes he could forget about the whole evening, but there are expectations now. He has to do something about this: namely, tell his parents the truth. He’ll have to tell his therapist, too, just as Monty’s really starting to open up, finally edging into the hopelessness, the desperation, the consuming loneliness.

He’ll have to tell Nate too, and Monty hears Nate’s “no regrets” as he falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Therapy is hard. Monty doesn't know how else to describe it. It’s hard, difficult, near impossible sometimes. Every word that comes out of his mouth feels simultaneously a lie and the closest thing to a truth he’ll ever say. “I’m unhappy,” he says, after dinner at his parents. “I don’t know how to talk about it.”

His therapist, a middle-aged woman with grey hair consistently pulled back by a plastic, flower-shaped barrette, tilts her head. He sees it from the corner of his eye, staring at the Persian rug pattern. Then his eyes lift, to the print hanging on her wall: a vase, with a single sunflower. It’s reminiscent of Van Gogh. Marie remains quiet, letting Monty continue.

“My parents—”

He was going to say something about expectations, an only child, magical world versus the muggle, but cuts himself off.

“They believe I’m gay.”

Marie is quiet still, but Monty doesn’t know where to go from that. The question “am I gay?” haunted him for years, and Monty’s still not sure what the answer is. The question mutated into “what _am_ I?” and similar identity related questions. He’s almost twenty-one and he still doesn't know.

“I might be gay,” he muses quietly. “But it doesn’t… feel right.”

“Do you wish you were gay?”

His mind immediately shies away from saying yes and he wants to say no, so badly, that he knows what’s real. He doesn’t say either.

“I wish I didn’t have to choose. Or— it’ s not that I’m choosing,” he continues, in a rush, trying to get words out before they dry up in his throat, “it’s like if I say I’m gay, there’s no going back. People will think of me as gay, and if I realize I’m _not_ gay, it’ll be that much harder to cement whatever it is I _am_.”

“It seems to me,” Marie says, “that it’s not your identity that concern you, but how other people perceive you.”

Yes. That’s what it is. Wells and Bellamy— they’ll mean well, but they’ve always seemed so much more self-assured, more aware of who they are. His parents seem to know who they want Monty to be, that if Monty wasn’t gay, it would be as though— “I’m scared of disappointing my parents, too,” he says. “All they seem to know is ‘gay’ and I— if I’m not, they’ll be confused. They won’t understand. Is it bad that I don’t… want to explain it to them?”

“No. It’s not bad.”

It’s a hard statement to swallow, and Monty tries, but he goes to Nate’s pub, orders a salad because he feels queasy, and dissects the words. Bad. Is it bad? What was he really getting at? He feels the need to come out, the need to be honest, and it feels bad to keep hidden. It hurts, in a way. It hurts that Wells and Bellamy don’t understand his struggles and that their attempts to help are misguided and that they’ve never asked how they can help. It feels bad to keep something from them. It feels wrong.

But, Marie said— it’s not bad, and Monty theoretically understands this. It’s not bad to keep it away. He might just need time, and even if he doesn’t come out, there’s nothing wrong or shameful about that. There’s nothing bad about being quiet if he’s not ready.

 

 

F&B is busy today, and Monty smiles, checks customers out, talks about books, continues a muggle fantasy novel on his break, and writes a notecard for his recommendation. It wasn’t a fantastic book by any means, but the wizarding world loves reading muggle interpretation of magic.

_No wands in this one_ , he writes, _but it is yet another captivating, realistic, magical setting. Twins, born in 1930’s New York City, grapple with their growing magical ability. Abigail, a seer, foresees her sister’s death when seven and dedicates herself to protecting her twin; Jessica has abilities she doesn’t understand, constantly causes accidents until she learns better control. When they turn seventeen, a mysterious neighbor moves in next door— and so begins their adventure, in a wonderfully promising series._

Wizards love vampires, too; they love it when muggles get it _wrong_. Monty doesn’t understand the obsession, but caters to it. Sometimes he talks about fantasy books with Laurie and Tom; Laurie was apparently obsessed with magic books as a kid, avidly reading the _Narnia_ series and _His Dark Materials_ and others Monty vaguely remembers himself. “It was just nice to read about a different kind of world,” he mused, back when they first talked about it. Tom never read them as a kid; his parents are religious and never approved.

“They didn’t even like any of the Homer stuff, like about Troy or Odysseus. Too out there for them.”

Monty wonders how they’d react if they knew that their very own roommate can perform magic, with and without a wand; he can disappear with his thoughts only, reappearing where he wants. Or if he told them about how basilisks are real, and so are griffins, that all those animals they thought were myth and legend are _real_. Monty can recall how his parents first reacted to his Hogwarts letter: disbelief and anger. They had thought it an elaborate joke, some kids pulling another prank on their only child.

Wells stops by in the middle of his shift. “I’m looking for that biography,” he says. “The one you were talking about?”

Monty has to think a moment. He talks about so many books throughout the week it takes a while. “Oh, the Ministry one? It’s this way.”

“I’ll be getting two copies. Raven wants one.”

“I was thinking about getting a copy for Bellamy’s birthday.”

“Yeah, he’d probably like it.”

“How is Raven?” Monty asks as they arrive at the table displaying the bestseller. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“She’s good. Tired. You know, the usual.”

“Here are your two copies.”

“We’re thinking of having a party of sorts, a reunion.”

He doesn’t want to go already.

“We’re gonna have Bellamy and Clarke, of course, you, if you can make it.”

Wells holds the books and shifts them around in his hands, running a finger down the spine of the bottom one. Monty watches the up-down movement. His therapist would want him to go. Everyone he knows would probably think it’s a good idea, but his friends are—

They’re successful. They’re happy. They have it all— or they appear to, and Monty knows they don’t compare, but he does, and that’s what matters. He compares. He has a stupid job, that helps pay bills, for food and books, for the meals he has every week at Nate’s restaurant, but where is it all going? Where is his life going? He sees Bellamy and sees the determination to do good, to do right, to stand up for those who need it. Wells, serious and dedicated, easy to smile, studying law, both magical and muggle, working to be just. And Raven, Clarke— all of them are leading fulfilling lives and when Monty is with them he feels the gap, a certain lack.

“Maybe,” he ends up saying. “Let’s head to the counter.”

 

 

Two weeks have now passed since the Wedding Talk, as Monty thinks about it. His parents haven’t brought it up again, believing everything settled, and Monty hasn’t brought it up with Nate yet.

“Why not?” Marie asks.

“He’s got his own life,” Monty answers, sure, totally positive. “He doesn’t want to deal with my mess.”

“Did he say that, or are you just thinking so?”

It’s the latter, and he frowns. “I— I never told anyone, but he. He asked me out, end of Seventh Year. We— He—” How does he _explain_ this? He still doesn’t really get it, how it happened, how he never _knew_ , why Nate even asked him. Marie is quiet while he founders. He should know how to talk about it. He’s thought about it fairly incessantly ever since seeing him again, and thinking, what if? What had stopped him?

He finally realizes: “I think I regret saying no. No, wait, I don’t think I regret it, I _do_ regret it, but for the wrong reasons. Maybe, if I had said yes, I wouldn’t be depressed, I wouldn’t be unhappy. One of the reasons I even said no was that we were so close to graduating and I thought— I thought a long-distance relationship wouldn’t work. Which doesn’t make sense to me anymore. I should have said yes. I could have been happy.”

“How are you so sure? Four years have passed, and you’re both different people now. Thinking about hypotheticals are getting you unnecessarily caught up.”

“I don’t want him to know about me.”

The words didn’t come to mind until now, and his breath catches. Marie is quiet and waits. He can feel tears pricking at his eyes already.

“I’m nowhere near where my friends are,” he starts. “My friends are doing dream job shit, looking forward, to the future, and I’m working at a dumb, dead-end job. I can only manage my bills because my parents help. I’m fake independent. I’m fake okay. I don’t— I don’t want Nate to know— he confessed, and I want him to think of me as that person he liked once upon a time. I want to remain that person to him. I—”

He can’t continue, trying to breathe deeply, air stuttering, swallowing past the emotion. His eyes are running, and he wipes at them with the heel of his hand, then the back. He grabs a tissue and blows his nose. He doesn’t look at Marie, but at the carpet, studying it intently.

“It sounds like there’s a sense of nostalgia,” Marie says. “You want to go back to a time when you were happier, and that time is with Nate. It also almost sounds like you do want a relationship with him, just to try it out. Am I wrong?”

Monty shakes his head. Her voice is soft, gentle, and it’s good for his nerves. He takes a shuddering breath; it’s still stuttering, but his throat feels blocked. He doesn’t think he can talk yet.

“I think you should try asking him to the wedding. I think it could be good for you. Or, if that’s too much, maybe just ask him to the party you said your friends are holding. Doesn’t that sound easier?”

Monty nods. It does.

 

 

He doesn't know if Marie meant immediately, but he ends up blurting the invitation to him at the pub. He’d been going around it in circles, around and around and around, all while he ate, staring out at the street, not even sure why he keeps on coming here, because the food is normal, nothing greater than what he can get elsewhere— but, of course, he does know why, he’s lying to himself— he’s here for Nate, a friend, someone who knew him before he was a mess.

The thought process, of how he’d ask Nate, is forefront, and that’s why Monty asks, he tells himself. He blurts it. “Want to go to a wedding with me?”

Nate is reaching for a pen stuck behind his ear, a half-apron around his waist. “What?”

“A wedding. Do you want to—” _Deep breaths_ , Monty tells himself. Just breathe. In, out. In out in out in out— “I have a cousin who’s getting married, and I have a bit of a dilemma.”

Nate raises in eyebrow. “A dilemma. Okay.”

“And— well— my parents think I’m gay, and want me to bring a plus one.”

His eyebrows scrunch together. “So you’re—”

“They think— they think we’re dating. I, uh, mentioned you and they—” Monty swallows. He can’t quiet look at Nate.

“What,” Nate says, flat. Monty stares at his fingers as he flexes them, and then, “look at me, Monty.” He does. “I’m gonna need a better explanation than that. It was pretty patchy.” Nate takes a look around, and then takes a seat after assuring himself he’s in the clear. “Explain.”

“They were talking about the wedding, and they asked if I wanted to go, and I don’t want to, I don’t remember this cousin, or, well, I _hardly_ remember this cousin, we haven’t talked since before, you know,” Monty lowers his voice, “Hogwarts,” then realizes he should really just get to the point, because Nate’s eyebrows are still scrunched together. “My parents would flip if I said that, so I said I was busy. They’re sick of hearing Bellamy and Wells’s name, so… yours slipped out. And then they said I should take you, as my date. That—” this is harder to say, “they always knew, about me.”

There’s a long pause, and Monty darts a quick look that lingers. Nate looks introspective, eyebrows now drawn together in thought.

“You don’t have to. If you don’t want to.”

“No, that’s not the problem.” Nate takes a deep breath and stands. “When’s the wedding?”

Stone in his throat, rapidly sinking, Monty replies, “August. It’s up north.”

“Oh, so I’ve some time to think about it?”

Monty shrugs, then nods. “Yeah.”

“Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll text you about it later? If I’ve got more questions and so on.”

Monty nods, a couple sharp jerks, and scrambles to find where he put his phone. “Here it is. Why don’t I—” Nate’s already pulled the phone from his hand, his fingers deft on the screen as he inputs his number.

“There, sent myself a text and everything. I’ll get back to you, yeah? As for food, your normal okay?”

Monty nods. He should say something else, add something more, but nothing comes to mind. Nate flashes a quicksilver smile and then walks away. His ass looks good today— Merlin, his mind is awful, quivering in anxiety, then noticing Nate’s ass. He’s awful, totally awful.

 

 

Nate texts Monty when he’s at work, shelving new stock. On break, he pulls it out to check.

_I’m good to go. Waiting on you for the date._

And traitorous mind that he has, it gets caught up on a word. Date. _Date_. He has a date. He stares at his phone, the white, grey, green, Nate’s name at the top. Shit. Fucking hell. _Shit_. He’s going to a wedding with Nate Miller, as friends, or more than friends, and something curls, or settles, in his gut. Anxiety, perhaps, or maybe… Maybe he’s just looking forward to it, and he’s not used to the sensation. When’s the last time he was excited about something anyways?

 

 

Both halves of both couples are at the Leaky Cauldron tonight; Raven and Wells on one side, Bellamy and Clarke on the other, the later done working for the day. They all look relaxed, though Monty senses a slight stiffening when he pulls a chair to sit at the end. They’re happy. He looks at their faces, and he sees it. Wells looks uncomfortable in his fancy robes, but he has Raven’s hand in his, resting on his leg. Raven has an elbow on the table, and it gets air every time she needs to gesture animatedly, which is often. Clarke and Bellamy just lean towards each other, at ease, and there’s something just boneless about Clarke, something about the set of her shoulders.

They’re at peace. Is that what he’s missing? A sense of inner peace. But that’s absurd, because Monty’s missing a lot, and inner peace was never something he really had before. (Before, something whispers in the back of his mind. When was this Before? Is there ever, really, a before for someone like him? Isn’t this just his natural state, stagnation and unhappiness, stewing, and never believing?)

“Monty, my man,” Bellamy says, shifts a little, raises his outer arm and body a little to give him a half-hug. “How’re you doing?”

Monty shrugs as he slouches in his chair, bag dropping beside him. It thuds, heavier than normal; he decided to buy a few books after work today. “Getting through the day. You?”

“We set a date for the reunion,” Wells says. “Mid-July. Will you come?”

He’s about to equivocate, get a non-committal sentence through his mouth yet again, but his mouth opens and then closes. Last session, Marie was wearing a sunflower barrette. For some reason, that’s the only thing he can think of. That sunflower barrette. It was large, too large for Marie’s head and amount of hair, and bright. Bright, bright yellow, and the brown to black inside silky to the eye. The petals were huge; Monty asked if the edges ever dug into her head, and Marie had shrugged, said, “sometimes, but only if I rest my head a certain way.”

He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about Marie’s sunflower clip, but there’s that weird feeling in his stomach again. That curling, settling feeling. He thinks, _I’m good to go_ , and _no regrets and all_ , and Monty says, “Sure, I’ll go.” Then, before seeing that small curl on Wells’s face, the brightening in Bellamy’s eyes, he goes to the counter to order.

 

 

The clip in Marie’s hair looks like a daisy today, a bright purple daisy. He stares at the Van Gogh-esque poster. His stomach is in knots, either from that feeling he’s got, that unrecognizable feeling, or because he’s going to the pub after this appointment, and he’s going to see Nate there. Or not go there, because— no. He’s going. He’s definitely going, because it’s a _thing_ now, for Monty to get lunch at Nate’s pub.

Therapy and the pub are the only stable parts of Monty’s week. There are occasional dinners with his parents, which he dreads; there are evening at the Leaky Cauldron, but it is therapy, Marie’s little office and her flower barrettes, and the pub, with the window seats, and the way aprons look slung low on Nate’s hips, which anchor his week. Everything seems to orbit around the two.

“Sometimes I wake up, and I can see everything around me, all my senses work, but everything is dark. Inside me, everything is dark. It’s all off. Nothing works.”

“What do you mean by off?”

Monty struggles with the words. That’s what therapy is, all the time: struggling to find the words, the patterns, how to express himself. “I don’t know,” he says, finally, giving up. Constant struggling is exhausting. “I don’t know what I mean by off, just that… I don’t know. I feel like it wasn’t always like this.”

“You mean, before you were depressed?”

He shies from the word. “Yeah, I guess.” His eyes fall from the poster to the rug. It’s red, and green, and there a fringe on both short ends. “It feels far away. Like I was a different person.”

Marie gives him his time to think, and Monty decides that it’s time to change the subject.

“I talked to Nate, about the wedding.” And there’s that feeling again, and Monty has a word for what it means right now: giddy. He’s giddy with the news, the knowledge that this is good news, and that makes him giddy? Which, somehow, makes him think of happiness. That, sort of, that’s what everything was all along. A sense of happiness, but there’s another layer here. He has someone he can share this news with, even if it’s just Marie, even if he’s paying her to listen to him talk. She cares, and she listens. Everything eases slightly in front of the Van Gogh-esque poster. “He said he’ll go.”

“That’s great news!” Marie sounds so happy for him that Monty blushes. It’s— someone’s happy for him. I— it doesn’t bear thinking of. “You just asked him?”

“Well, yeah, I guess,” he mumbles. “It sort of… just came out.”

“Well, congratulations. I’m proud of you. It must’ve been hard.”

Something in him sort of glows at the praise, though that’s an awful words to use, horribly cliched and all, but it fits. His hands fiddle in his lap. “Thanks.”

Successful diversion.

 

 

Outside, the weather is dreary. Raindrops fall every now and then, an uneven patter on the sidewalk, road, and Monty’s head. He pushes through, to the pub, and Nate’s sitting at one of the window tables— though, when Monty does a double take, lounging’s the better word, tapping nails on the table, a beer in front of him. When the door closes behind Monty, Nate half-turns and gives Monty one of those half-smiles, and Monty smiles back in confusion, automatic. Nate’s gotta realize that, because he laughs, and gestures to the seat opposite.

“I’m off today,” Nate explains while Monty shakes the rain from his head and sits down. “Decided to join you for lunch.”

His heart is beating faster. This is a fact, Monty’s pretty sure. Mostly sure. “Oh, okay.”

Nate tilts his head. “Every Thursday, fifteen past noon. You’re like clockwork. Thought I’d take the day off, for once, and get to actually talk to you.”

Monty’s not really that good at talking, he’d thought he’d bungled every interaction with Nate ever since that first lunch here, but maybe not. “Sometimes I get together with my old Hogwarts friends at the Leaky Cauldron,” Monty says. “For dinner, or whatever. You’re welcome to join.”

Nate takes a sip of his beer. “Bellamy and Wells?”

“And their girlfriends.”

Nate chuckles. “Of course. The moment those two got girlfriends, they were attached at the hip.”

A waiter stops by, greets Nate, and takes Monty’s order while filling a glass of water for him.

“I always thought that was a weird saying.” Nate lifts an eyebrow. “Attached at the hip. It’s just… not the spot I’d pick to describe two super attached people.”

“What part would you pick?”

Monty takes a moment to think by sipping his water. “I’m not sure. Nose, maybe. They can only see each other.”

“There’s another saying for that— eyes only for each other.”

Monty smiles, glances down. This is natural; it’s going well. “You’re not dating anyone, right?”

Nate doesn’t reply immediately, which makes Monty think, _yes, of course he is, why wouldn’t he_. “Why are you asking now, and not earlier?”

Monty can’t look up at all, and this is definitely not going well anymore, and he wants to hide, and run, just go back to his flat, with Laurie and Tom, wake up, go to work, and not have to think about this, think about people. “I don’t know.”

“Hey, look at me.” Nate’s not the gentle type as far as Monty knows, but he sounds gentle here, like he— like he gets that Monty’s skittish, that an altercation of any sort would have him running for the hills. Monty somewhat lifts his eyes and settles on Nate’s left shoulder, Monty’s left, Nate’s right.

“I’m not mad or anything,” Nate says, tilting his head again, trying to catch Monty’s eye. “I don’t see you for years, and then suddenly there’s all this shit going on with you. I’m curious and concerned.”

“I’m fine, I’m good,” Monty says, a lie on automatic. “I— I’m doing my best.”

“Hm. If you say so.” Nate shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, rolls his shoulders, and looks outside. Monty breathes out and lets his eyes wander to the window as well. “Lots of people say this, so it sounds like false sincerity, but I’m here. I care. I know what it’s like to get lost in your own head.”

Monty’s eyes mist with tears. “I wonder if it’s going to pour or not,” he says, instead of continuing the conversation. He can’t. He’s black inside; that’s all he knows. He’s black inside. He sees the gray outside, a woman in a bright yellow jacket and a man with a black and blue polka dot umbrella. The pub is warm lighting, and Nate is warm coloring, with stubble, and long eyelashes, and he hears the clink of ice sliding somewhere in the distance.

“Probably not,” Nate says, and takes another sip of his beer. That might be understanding in his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this as a half-completed draft on my computer, both untouched for months, and sat down just now and finished it. hope you enjoyed the update, measly though it is.

**Author's Note:**

> fyi Monty's depression is inspired by/based upon my own struggle with depression, so that's where that's coming from! my own experiences with therapy will also influence Monty's experience with therapy too
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](serbellamy.tumblr.com)?? only if u want <3 hope you enjoyed!!


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